


Mistletoe

by Red_Chapel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Verity Made Me Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/pseuds/Red_Chapel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanging mistletoe in the kitchen wasn’t exactly something John would have expected Sherlock to do.</p><p>Russian translation available at: http://ficbook.net/readfic/1595994. With thanks to Ekaterina F.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> Inspired by, ~~demanded~~ encouraged by, and dedicated to Verityburns, this story was born of a fangirl’s tendency to see what she wants to see and a conversation on LJ regarding 221B Christmas decorations (http://verityburns.livejournal.com/23436.html?thread=2505100#t2505100).
> 
> With thanks to betas verityburns, shouldbeover, and splendens. All remaining absurdities are my own.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock—it’s just a few decorations. You want the place to look festive for the party, don’t you?’ 

Sherlock did not want the place—the _flat_ , _his_ flat—to look festive for the party. Neither did he particularly want it to look unfestive, or gloomy, or Spartan, or cluttered, or anything else. What he wanted was: 1) not to have Mrs Hudson flittering about with tinsel and stockings and fairy lights when he was trying to work on an experiment; 2) not to have said decorations, once placed or hung or lit, interfering with his ability to work on said experiment; and 3) not to be bothered with a party at all.

However, there was a party scheduled, guests invited, and nibbles and drinks purchased and planned. This meant there were also decorations to be placed and hung and lit. And a flittering Mrs Hudson impeding scientific progress.

‘It’s days before the party’, Sherlock groused. ‘Surely you can come back another time.’

‘I’m here now, and you’re here to help me.’

‘John will help you when he gets back.’

‘Just loop the end of this over the corner there. Run it along the top…’

Sherlock looked at the string of lights forced into his hand, looked at Mrs Hudson, started a spool to record her instructions (should he actually need to reference them later), noted the way her stance favoured her troublesome hip, reviewed his list of Grateful Clients for a good osteopath, considered the suitability of osteopathic services as a Christmas gift (filed for later retrieval under ‘Ask John’), recollected that he had not yet purchased a Christmas gift for John, recalled the handsomely tooled leather shoulder holster worn by a thief he and John had tackled to the ground three weeks prior, set up search parameters for locating a source for a comparable item before the holiday—correction, before the party—remembered that he was holding decorations for that party in his hand, refocused his gaze on Mrs Hudson looking impatiently up at him, sighed, and looped the end of the string over the corner of the mirror.

Twenty minutes later he returned to the kitchen table and prepared to resume his experiment, glad that he had not yet reached a timing-critical stage.

‘We’re not done, Sherlock. There’s still some left.’ Mrs Hudson held up a small chunk of greenery for evidence.

Sherlock took the piece, flung it over the fluorescent fixture above the table, and arranged it so that none of it was blocking his light. ‘Done’, he declared.

Mrs Hudson hesitated, wondering if she should press for the remaining item to be hung. Her decision was made for her by the ringing of the doorbell. The last of the decorating would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

‘I swear, Christmas comes earlier every year’, John complained. He settled the box and three carrier bags he’d just lugged up the stairs inside the sitting room doorway. ‘And I get further behind on my shopping. At this rate, by the time I’m 50, I’m going to spend all of December buying gifts for the Christmas before.’

Sherlock did not look up from the book he was reading. ‘You’re not making sense.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But I’m tired and sore and my brain abandoned me when I was dealing with the last cashier I faced. It was easier that way. God’, he added, stretching out his left arm. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve been this bruised.’

Sherlock lowered his book and poised himself to rise from his chair. ‘Why are you bruised?’

‘Because there are some people out there willing to do anything for a good deal on a wide screen TV, including knocking over the bloke standing between them and the TV. Which would happen to have been me at around 8 o’clock this morning.’ John sighed. ‘Next year, I’m doing all of my shopping online.’

‘You said that last year’, Sherlock commented, settling back to read again.

‘How would you know? You weren’t even here last—’ John’s words were half swallowed as he remembered why Sherlock hadn’t been here last year and the Christmas morning visit he’d made to his friend’s grave. He puffed out a steadying breath. ‘Well, at least the flat is ready for the holidays, even if I’m not. Looks nice’, he noted, glancing around at the lights and tinsel.

‘Mm, yes. Mrs Hudson was quite determined.’ Sherlock examined John over the edge of his book—the darkened bags under his eyes, the hand helping to brace him upright in the doorway, the lines drawn tight around his mouth and eyes—and added, ‘There’s leftover curry in the fridge.’

‘Thanks. Too tired to be hungry. I’m going to turn in.’ John pushed himself off from the door frame and collected his purchases. ‘Night.’

‘Good night.’

 

* * *

 

The following morning found John seated at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea and a plate of toast and jam before him. But despite having expended far more calories during yesterday’s shopping extravaganza than he’d had opportunity to take in, the food was not at the centre of his attention. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, feet stretched out under the table, with a very intent look on his face as he stared at the green bough perched on top of the light fixture.

John wasn’t a great thinker, not like Sherlock, but when he was having a good think, he gave it his full attention. Therefore, while he sat and considered that green bough, his toast went from toasty to mushy and his tea went from steaming to tepid to cold.

He was still thus positioned when he heard Sherlock stretching and yawning his way down the hall. The man stopped by the refrigerator to scrub his hands through his hair and run his face through an impressive array of contortions, then walked over and picked up John’s mug. On tasting it, his face twisted again.

‘Why is this tea cold?’

‘I guess I forgot to drink it’, John answered. ‘Who hung the mistletoe?’

Sherlock glanced at the greenery John was still staring at. ‘I did’, he replied, seating himself on the edge of the table and lifting the plate of toast to give it a sniff and a poke. He set it back down in disappointment.

‘You did?’

‘Not exactly something that Mrs Hudson would do, is it?’ Judging by yesterday’s activities, holiday decorations were items that, in her estimation, needed to be stationed in very specific places in very specific ways, not simply thrown about. _Ridiculous_ , he thought.

‘Hm. Guess not.’ John looked up at Sherlock. Hanging mistletoe in their kitchen wasn’t exactly something John would have expected _him_ to do, either. Aside from one charged moment in the sitting room with Irene Adler, John had never had the idea that Sherlock would be interested in anything that a few kisses under the mistletoe might lead to. And even that moment he wasn’t entirely sure about. Had Sherlock been aroused by Irene’s body or was he merely impressed with her brain? Not that a woman’s mind wasn’t part of her attraction, John knew, but really: when there’s a professional dominatrix standing beside you wrapped in your dressing gown—or right in front of you stark-gorgeously-naked—who was thinking about brains? Who was thinking at all?

So John found it difficult to consider that Sherlock had hung mistletoe in their kitchen to any purpose. If he had, he wasn’t taking advantage of it now. Although John stayed where he was, as under the mistletoe as one might be, Sherlock rose, set the kettle to boil, got out a clean mug for himself, then went to settle into the sofa. _So much for that idea_ , John thought, then abruptly stopped thinking, slamming a steel door down on any thought that might have followed that one. Because thoughts about Sherlock and mistletoe and taking advantage were not going to be a part of his day. His nice, normal, not gay day.

‘You’d rather have eggs for breakfast anyway’, Sherlock called.

Grateful for the distraction, John got up to fry them both some eggs.

 

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, John was seated at the desk, newspaper spread before him, searching the adverts for the words ‘swede’ or ‘radiator’.

‘Anything?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Nothing.’ John glanced up at Sherlock, leaning against the kitchen table and typing into his phone.

‘Mm. Probably too soon anyway. They’ll undoubtedly wait for the electronics before announcing their readiness.’

‘Right.’ John didn’t know why he was searching for swedes and radiators in the classifieds, nor did he know what electronics were needed before this group of con artists could announce their readiness. Or even to whom they were announcing it. What he did know was that Sherlock looked particularly good in the dark blue shirt he was wearing today and that his hair was looking decidedly better than it had when he had returned—the short cut, dyed red, was back to his natural dark and curly locks. Also, the extra stone of weight Sherlock had miraculously carried had mostly disappeared; to the doctor’s eye it had been pleasingly healthy, but it had seemed out of place on Sherlock’s always lean body, and Sherlock’s shirts were now no longer stretched so taut across his chest, buttons ready to burst at a breath too deeply drawn.

John drew his own deep breath and looked at the path his mind had just wandered down, wishing it had stayed back with the radiators and con artists. The cut of his hair and the fit of his shirts weren’t things that John—as a trusted friend and partner and decidedly not gay man—should be noticing about Sherlock. But, in the three months his flatmate had been back from the dead, John had been noticing exactly these sorts of things, typically at inappropriate moments (although he conceded that there probably weren’t appropriate moments); that it hadn’t got better as he’d continued to hope it would, only worse; and that right now Sherlock was standing under the mistletoe—mistletoe that Sherlock himself had hung—and if that wasn’t an invitation, John didn’t know what was.

And it wasn’t polite to turn down an invitation.

And that, all of that and so much more besides, was why John’s arms pushed him up from the chair and his feet propelled him toward the kitchen and his calves tightened in just the right way and by just the right amount so that, when his torso leaned in and his lips pressed themselves against Sherlock, they were at just the right height to be kissing him squarely on the mouth.

And John was rather pleased with himself, because it took a lot to get Sherlock to pause while typing on that damned phone of his, but he paused while John kissed him.

And then went right back to typing.

And then paused again. Turned to look at John, eyes narrowed, brows scrunched, searching earnestly for an explanation, a clue, anything, but coming up completely blank.

John went back to being pleased with himself. Especially when Sherlock opened and closed his mouth twice in a row, at a loss for words. Yes, John was quite pleased with himself.

‘Well, you did hang the mistletoe.’

Which statement seemed not to help Sherlock’s comprehension of the situation at all, because the question on his face just grew deeper.

John directed a glance toward the green spray draped over the light. Sherlock followed his gaze, then turned back.

‘Mistletoe?’ he asked.

‘Mistletoe.’ John looked expectantly at him, then thought... ‘You _do_ know what mistletoe is for, Sherlock. Right?’

Sherlock tilted his head. ‘Decoration? Christmas?’

 _Shit._ John closed his eyes and prepared to be horribly embarrassed. _Of course Sherlock doesn’t know what mistletoe’s for. Why would he possibly know something so mundane and elementary as that?_ Before John had gained the courage to open his eyes and plead insanity, he heard the faint sound of Sherlock’s fingers running over the phone again. He waited.

‘Oh.’

John dared to open one eye, peeking up at Sherlock rapidly scanning whatever he’d brought up on the phone.

‘Well, that would explain the doorways and quiet corners.’

‘What?’ John asked.

‘When Mrs Hudson left yesterday, she mumbled something about coming back later to finish up the doorways and quiet corners.’

John half chuckled. Mrs Hudson knew how to decorate for Christmas.

‘So, when you put that up there’, John nodded to the bit on the light, ‘you didn’t know what you were doing?’

Sherlock looked torn between admitting ignorance and defending his innocence. He opted to protest, ‘But I’m not properly under it; therefore, you shouldn’t have kissed me.’

John noted the angle and distance between Sherlock and the mistletoe. ‘You’re right’, he acknowledged even as he thought _In for a penny..._

And he took Sherlock by the shoulders, pushed him back onto the table—making sure he was directly under the mistletoe—and kissed him with a determined thoroughness.

On being released, Sherlock was left leaning back on his elbows, looking up at John, breathing just a bit raggedly through still-parted lips.

‘Does it emit some sort of pheromone-like chemical?’ he asked. ‘Is that why it provokes this response? Is this what happens with prolonged exposure?’

John grinned at the completely Sherlockian queries. ‘I don’t think so’, he said. ‘I’d say it’s more that the mistletoe gives a person… permission. To do something they maybe wouldn’t normally.’

‘I don’t normally— That is, I don’t—ever. I haven’t.’

‘I know’, John said, wondering if it was wrong to find those stumbling words and that lost look sexy.

Sherlock eased and straightened up. ‘You do?’

‘And I haven’t either. In this particular…’ John waved his hand between them. ‘…configuration.’

Sherlock’s face lit with recollection. ‘You’re not gay.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then why—?’

 _Good question._ John opted to defer further consideration of ‘why’ and gave Sherlock the best answer he’d yet allowed himself.

‘Look, when your best friend’s dead, you have a lot of time to sit and think about him and about things; things that happened, things that didn’t happen and maybe could’ve happened if you’d thought about them before. And you can come to some pretty interesting realisations. Like…’ John blew out a long, slow breath, swallowed. ‘Like maybe “not gay” doesn’t rule out “not straight”.’

They looked at each other a moment, each trying to gauge how far past no return this conversation had already gone.

‘Sherlock, I think— I’m pretty— I’m sure that I could give “not straight” a try. With you.’

‘With me?’

‘If you’re interesting in trying’, John qualified. ‘Yes.’ He nodded and drew back his shoulders, hands firmly at his sides. There was nothing like standing at attention to make you feel that there was some sense and control somewhere in your life, even if you were feeling rather muddled and chaotic at the moment.

Sherlock’s jaw was working and he swallowed several times as John gave him time to absorb, compute, digest, or run screaming. Not that Sherlock was the sort to—

‘Off out. Errands to run; presents to buy. Don’t wait up.’ And with that the detective had grabbed his coat and dashed down the stairs. John heard the street door bang shut, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of how symbolic that closing door might be.

Because if it were possible to pick yourself up by the belt and collar and throw yourself down the stairs and out of a person’s life—your own life maybe—John might have done it then. Sherlock hadn’t even known what mistletoe was all about, yet John had ploughed right ahead and kissed him, twice, and all but invited him to bed. And it wasn’t like he had forgotten that this wasn’t Sherlock’s area. He couldn’t forget Sherlock himself informing him of that fact on day one. Nor would he forget Mycroft’s indelicate taunt during the Adler case. And Sherlock’s face on both occasions. For an arrogant, know-it-all dick, Sherlock could look surprisingly young and vulnerable.

John suddenly felt like a dirty old man asking school girls if they wanted some candy.

 

* * *

 

John spent the afternoon and into the evening worrying. About Sherlock: where had he gone and what was he doing and feeling? About himself: shouldn’t he have known by now if he wasn’t straight? Wasn’t he a bit past the age for experimenting? About their friendship: could it survive what John had done? And about the kiss he had taken from Sherlock while pressing him down on the table. John grew increasingly convinced that that kiss had, indeed, been taken. Sherlock had been so still beneath him, letting it happen, not pushing John away, but not returning it, not taking part. As if he might not know how to return it, as if—and John accepted this as fact—it had been his first kiss. Stolen from him by a man too caught up in his own head to think for a moment what he might be doing to another.

By the time he heard the street door bang shut again, John had made his preparations, and by the time Sherlock had reached the top of the stairs, he was on his feet by the desk, ready to face him. He heard the steps halt on the landing, endured the pause, felt a hint of relief when the door opened.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway and, barely moving his head, seemed to be sensing the room and what had changed since his rushed departure hours before. When he finally focused his gaze, it was to glance briefly at John and then at the small suitcase and larger duffle sitting at the end of the sofa.

‘You’re leaving?’

John cleared his throat. ‘I’m ready to if you want me to.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘I asked you first.’

John looked to the carpet for guidance. ‘Sherlock, I know—’ Another steadying breath, head up. ‘I messed up. I’m sorry. And if you’re not comfortable having me around for now or for… I’ll go.’

Sherlock turned to hang his coat by the door. ‘That’s good of you’, he said.

John’s stomach fell to the ground floor.

‘So you want me to go?’

‘What are the alternatives?’ Sherlock asked, half-turning back to John.

‘We can forget about it, delete it’, John suggested. ‘Call it over and done. More than done; it never happened. Never will.’

‘You won’t kiss me again?’ Sherlock looked straight into John.

‘Nope’, John affirmed.

‘Can I kiss you?’

John froze. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘I asked you first.’

A beat, two passed, and then they were both snorting and snickering, then full-on laughing. When their laughter had run its course, they found they were standing somewhat closer and neither had any idea where to look or to put his hands.

‘Yes’, John said.

‘Yes to what?’ Sherlock asked cautiously.

‘To whatever’s next.’

 

* * *

 

It was not the best, most epic, most passionate, or hottest make-out session that John Watson had ever taken part in. Neither was it the worst in any way. What it was, was twenty minutes of tentative kisses becoming more certain, lost hands finding ways to rest easily on shoulders and waists, bumped noses inciting giggles that turned to soft and playful kisses.

It ended when John drew one hand slowly, firmly down Sherlock’s flank and, just as his fingers grazed the top of one buttock, Sherlock pulled away, hands on John’s shoulders, and held him his full arm’s-length away.

John’s hands both flew up in surrender. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t going—’

‘Good.’ Sherlock still held John’s shoulders, whether to keep the distance between them or to ensure he moved no farther away, he wasn’t certain.

After a long look, Sherlock stated, ‘You’re not leaving.’

‘Never wanted to’, John confirmed.

 

* * *

 

On heading to the shower the following morning, John had not bothered looking for Sherlock. When there wasn’t a case demanding attention, the man often slept late. He was therefore mildly surprised, on walking back to the kitchen, to see Sherlock reading in his chair. As John neared, he noted a sprinkling of books that had not been present when he’d gone to bed the night before. Their presence didn’t alarm him; their titles did: _Gay Sex: A Manual for Men Who Love Men; The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex; The Dick Book: Tuning Your Favourite Body Part; Joyful Gay Sex: The Ultimate Pleasure Guide; Gay Sex, Gay Health: All You Need to Know About Sex, Relationships and Sexual Health_.

‘Morning’, Sherlock said.

‘Morning’, John replied hesitantly. After considering his options, he finally tried, ‘A little light reading?’

‘Mmm.’

John took a few steps forward and bent down to peek within the pages of one of the books.

‘You might want to start with the one on the left. Little more clinical than the others. Might appeal to the doctor in you.’

‘Um… Sure.’ John let the book fall closed, hesitated, and then picked up the one Sherlock had indicated. After flipping through a few pages, noting nothing, he asked, ‘Reading all of these, then?’

‘Not cover-to-cover.’

‘That’s good.’ John’s eyes bulged as he looked again at the pile of books. ‘That’d be a lot of reading.’ He hadn’t thought that one hand straying near to one bum could multiply so rapidly into so many books.

Sherlock glanced at John, then steadied his gaze on him, assessing. He closed his book and set it aside, folded his hands in his lap.

‘Would you prefer me to be ignorant? I assure you, I’m not. Just reading up on the finer points.’

‘Right. Okay.’ John nodded.

Sherlock maintained his demure posture, his face hinting at a smile.

‘Do you have a virgin kink, John?’

‘What? Virgin—? No!’ John pressed out a smile and tried to look like that was the most absurd thing Sherlock could have uttered, not just the most awkward. ‘No, I just, I’m just saying, you don’t need to be an expert or anything. I’m no expert. I mean it’s—. People figure it out. All the time. Loads of people.’ He nodded repeatedly to emphasise this point.

‘So you’re saying that my lack of experience isn’t to be the main attraction of our earliest sexual encounters. Despite your reaction to _my_ reaction when you first kissed me yesterday.’ John’s face froze just as his smile had begun to fade. ‘You were obviously aroused by it.’

John resisted a self-conscious glance downward and began an assessment of his current state of arousal.

Sherlock sighed. ‘I said aroused, not engorged.’ John choked back a gasp. Sherlock sniffed, gave a small smirk, and picked up his book. ‘Just making sure I don’t have to play the blushing innocent for you.’

John stared a moment longer, then turned and marched for the kitchen and a calming cup of tea. Halfway there he whirled around and stated, ‘And I defy you to find a single man in all of London who doesn’t like the thought of being with a virgin, gay, straight, or otherwise, so there.’ With that, he turned back to the kitchen and proceeded with his morning.

 

* * *

 

That night, John climbed into bed, steaming cup of hot chocolate on the nightstand and gay sex manual on the duvet beside him. He’d realized as he’d reached for the kettle that morning that he still held in his hands the book that Sherlock had directed him to. He’d taken it with him when he went upstairs to dress and left it there when Sherlock had called up to him, a healthy dose of Christmas cheer in his voice, that Lestrade was holding the scene of a home invasion/kidnapping for his input. After 25 silent minutes at the scene, five intense hours of legwork, and 10 arrogant minutes of explication at the Met on the who, how, and why of the case, they had found their way back to Baker Street.

John’s first thought had been for food; Sherlock’s had been for John. More precisely, for kissing John. As Sherlock engaged in a studied yet enthusiastic exploration of John’s mouth, John concluded that at least some portion of Sherlock’s recent reading had been on kissing. This was not the tentative, almost-shy kissing of the previous night, and it certainly wasn’t the passive reception of John’s kisses on that morning. John had no complaints. Kissing was actually rather high on his list of good things to do with a romantic partner.

It had felt a bit odd when Sherlock manoeuvred him through a quarter turn and several backward steps, ending with his buttocks against the kitchen table. Weirder when he had then pressed him back until he was lying on the table much as John had done to him. Being the one that sometimes got pressed to the table: that would take getting used to. However, if it came with these kisses, John estimated it wouldn’t take long.

Sherlock pulled back and grinned at John. ‘Mistletoe.’

John smiled up at him. ‘You know, we probably ought to put that stuff somewhere more convenient.’

‘Seems rather convenient where it is. I don’t feel inconvenienced. Do you feel inconvenienced, John?’

John’s stomach spoke for him, expressing its inconvenient and undesirable state of emptiness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. ‘Yes. Fine. Food.’

John smiled to himself at the recollection, sipped at the hot chocolate, then picked up the book. Scanning the table of contents and flipping through, it seemed like any other sex guide: positions, precautions, and pictures enough to make everything clear. Quite clear. He settled in and began to read.

 

* * *

 

John woke the next day from dreams of kissing Sherlock and more of a ‘morning situation’ than he generally experienced. He decided to take his time dealing with it, restricting himself to long, slow strokes as he relived his kisses with Sherlock, those both real and dreamt. When that got too much, when he normally would have got to business and finished quickly, he dropped his hand and let the sheet fall against him. He imagined Sherlock’s lips pulling away from his mouth, skipping lightly across his chin, throat, chest. Then his tongue, licking a steady line from sternum to navel, a delicate dipping in there followed by a filthy swirl and a resumption of the downward journey. The imagined warmth left him briefly, returning as a phantasm of wet heat around his cock. Head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, still he could see Sherlock’s curls bobbing up and down over him, and in his mind they went all of the way down until Sherlock’s face was pressed into his groin, his length filling Sherlock’s long, gorgeous throat. John groaned and began lightly running his hands along his hips to inner thighs and back again, feeling at once as if he were touching Sherlock and Sherlock were touching him. He spread his legs wide, allowing the spectral Sherlock to settle between them, licking and sucking at his balls. Finally, he took himself into his off hand, the relative novelty of the grip making it easier for his mind to perceive that this was not his hand but another’s. A few fast pumps to the vision of Sherlock finishing him and John came with grunting, hissing, ‘Fuck, Sherlock, yessss!’

Lying back, allowing himself a few moments to collect and steady himself, John had only one thought: _Definitely not straight._

 

* * *

 

‘Yoo-hoo’, Mrs Hudson called, opening 221B’s sitting room door. ‘Sherlock? John?’ She set a small box on the coffee table. ‘Boys?’ she tried, louder. Her calls went unanswered.

‘Where have they gone off to now?’ she muttered, hoping their absence didn’t involve a murder. For all that Sherlock would be quite happy with one, she didn’t think murder was all that Christmassy.

Murder left her thoughts and pleasure lit her face as she looked over the decorations she and Sherlock had hung a few days before. There was nothing like tinsel and fairy lights to give a room a true holiday feel. All it needed was a few finishing touches.

She considered her options: the door she’d just entered, of course, and the archway to the kitchen. There was enough for both, doubling opportunities. No one should miss a chance at being under the mistletoe.

With a sprig tied to string cut to a good length, a tack hammer, and small nail in her apron pocket, she pulled one of the kitchen chairs under the arch. She paused a moment, debating whether she should really be doing this, at her age and with her hip, but she forged ahead. With all there was to do before the party—the baking, the shopping, the wrapping—she didn’t know if she’d have another chance.

Planting a foot solidly on the chair’s seat and getting a firm grip on its back, she pulled herself up, wobbling a bit until she caught herself with one hand on the beam above her. _Not so bad for an old gal_ , she thought. A few taps with the hammer and she was done. Satisfaction settled on her face at having got the job done on her own and with a thought to who might be taking advantage of her handiwork. She rather thought Detective Lestrade might like to catch Molly under it, especially if she wore a dress like she had at their last party.

She slipped the hammer back into her pocket and looked down, wavering slightly. Best to drop to one knee, she determined; take the slow way down. She gripped the chair back again and carefully lowered herself, sighing in relief when she was back on the floor. Emboldened by success, she moved the chair to the front door, strung the rest of the mistletoe, and ascended the chair once again.

As she was tapping the nail into place, she glanced down toward the stairs. The sight proved disorienting—she was much higher than she should have been, the stairs looked suddenly terribly steep. She gasped, wobbled, and grabbed at the lintel. Once steadied, she decided that the tack was fine as it was and bent to climb off the chair. She opened her hand to grip the chair back, realised she still held the hammer and that it was falling from her hand, and tried to catch it. After that, the order of things got jumbled, but it ended with her sprawled on her side, one leg bent under the other, and her ankle complaining loudly.

Of course, that was the moment Sherlock chose to return home. As soon as she heard the street door slam and his step on the stairs, she tried to get up, but she felt a bit tangled and winded.

Sherlock, seeing the open door and knocked over chair, covered the last few steps in a single bound.

‘Mrs Hudson!’ He dropped beside her, hands hovering above her, not certain of what to do. John would know. He pulled out his mobile, dialling with one hand and tucking his other under her to help her to sit up.

John hadn’t got out hello before Sherlock commanded, ‘Forget the food. Mrs Hudson’s hurt. Upstairs.’ He threw the phone aside and pulled her up so her back was against his chest. John arrived about 30 seconds later, breaking off in mid-order at Speedy’s to dash up the stairs.

Within the hour, Mrs Hudson was tucked into bed with her foot elevated, iced, and neatly wrapped in a compression bandage. She lay back on the pillows, inwardly shaking her head at the fuss two grown men could make over a little sprained ankle. She’d had much worse in her day.

At John’s direction, Sherlock stayed with her while he went out for something a bit stronger than paracetemol.

‘What on earth were you doing on that chair?’ he demanded, now that she was comfortable.

Mrs Hudson drew the blanket up under her chin and nestled further into the pillows—the warmth did feel good, especially with her ankle still feeling cold from the ice—as she considered what to tell him. Hanging mistletoe probably wasn’t on Sherlock’s list of things worth risking a sprained ankle for. John’s either. However, it was Sherlock, and when he went back to his flat later, he’d see the mistletoe and know.

‘I was just putting up a few more Christmas decorations’, she said.

‘Decorations? You risked your life for decorations?’ Mrs Hudson nearly giggled at how like Mycroft Sherlock could look when he was being stern.

‘Oh, Sherlock. Don’t be silly. I’m fine. And Christmas decorations aren’t complete without some mistletoe.’

‘We already have mistletoe’, Sherlock pointed out. ‘You’ve risked your life for redundant decorations.’

‘You do?’ She hadn’t seen it, but she supposed John could have hung some. It was the sort of thing he might do. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend in the few months they’d been back in the flat upstairs, but perhaps he’d met someone recently. ‘Where?’

‘You know where. On the kitchen light. You saw me put it there yourself.’ Sherlock looked closely at her. ‘Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell?’

‘Oh, that’s not mistletoe, dear. That’s holly.’

‘Holly?’

‘Of course.’ At Sherlock’s confused look, she asked, ‘Don’t you even know the difference between mistletoe and holly? Really Sherlock, for all the things you know…’

Holly. John had called it mistletoe. And there was apparently a difference. Was holly also for kissing? For something else? Why had John called it mistletoe? Didn’t he know about these mundane things?

‘Holly’, Sherlock said flatly.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, whatever’, he snapped. ‘We certainly had enough decorations that you didn’t need to go climbing on chairs, risking your neck, for a bit of greenery.’

Mrs Hudson sighed. Of course he was right, but she wasn’t going to say it.

When John returned a short while later, Sherlock slipped out. John didn’t seem to notice the penetrating stare Sherlock gave him on his way out.

 

* * *

 

‘She’s resting now. One of us should go down every few hours, check on her, ice the ankle again.’ Even as he said it, John knew he would be the one doing that. ‘She’s lucky it’s just a sprain. Why was she climbing on chairs, anyway?’

‘Decorating.’ Sherlock was stretched on the sofa, faced away from the door, focused on the computer on his lap.

‘Decorating?’

‘Yes’, Sherlock replied, spinning around and facing John. ‘Seems she felt it was very important that we have mistletoe.’ He emphasised the last word just slightly.

‘Heh’, John smiled. ‘Didn’t we have enough already?’

‘Seems we didn’t have any’, Sherlock said.

John looked at the kitchen light. The bough of greenery was still there.

‘Then what do you call that?’

‘Holly.’ Terse.

John looked again, walked over. ‘Holly?’

‘Yes, John, holly.' Sherlock rose and strode to the kitchen, thrusting the laptop at him. ‘A common decoration in English households for the Yule season, use extending back centuries. Distinguished from mistletoe by leaves, size, berry colour.’

‘Oh.’ John looked at the computer screen. It held a picture that clearly matched the bough on the light, captioned as _‘_ _Ilex aquifolium_ (European holly)’. Beside it was another window displaying _‘_ _Viscum album_ (mistletoe native to northern Europe)’. ‘Huh.’

Sherlock pressed very close to John’s face. ‘So you didn’t know that was holly?’

John receded. ‘Ah, no.’ Sherlock scanned his face and posture for signs of a lie.

‘So you called that mistletoe because…’

‘Because I thought it was mistletoe.’ At Sherlock’s dissatisfied glare, he protested, ‘What, Sherlock, it’s green stuff, it’s Christmas, there’re berries on it.’

‘But yet it didn’t occur to you that it might be holly.’ Sherlock snatched his laptop back. ‘Why would you just assume that it was mistletoe?’

John shrugged. ‘Wishful thinking?’

Sherlock looked unimpressed.

‘Well, it was certainly nice when it was mistletoe, wasn’t it?’ John asked, voice rising. ‘I mean, you weren’t complaining. And you looked it up’, he remembered. ‘You must have seen a picture of it.’

‘I looked it up on my phone, John’, Sherlock retorted. ‘Tiny little photo. It was a lump of green.’ He snapped the laptop shut, cast it onto the table, and turned back to John. ‘I was more concerned with the words at that moment, having trusted you as to the identity of the substance. Not to mention rather distracted by the import of your most recent action toward me.’

‘Okay.’ John paused, calmed. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I did not intentionally mislead you as to the identity of that substance. It was an honest mistake. I saw green leaves; my brain immediately went to mistletoe.’

Sherlock snorted. ‘Your brain? Are you sure that’s what you were thinking with?’

‘I repeat’, John said firmly. ‘You weren’t complaining. You didn’t complain then, you didn’t complain that evening, you didn’t complain all day yesterday—.’

‘Yes, yes, fine. I have been entirely lacking in complaints regarding the mistletoe. Holly.’

John moved close, laid his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Sherlock, I would not attempt to trick you, or anyone, into any sort of relationship. And as mistakes go, I count it as one of my better ones. Alright?’

Sherlock appeared marginally mollified.

‘Yes, well, you might want to study up on British holiday decorating practices’, he suggested.

‘I can think of better ways to spend my time’, John assured him, leaning in for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

John had not intended more than a kiss. He really hadn’t. Well, maybe a few more kisses, some hugging, certainly, perhaps even a tentative stroke or two down Sherlock’s back, strokes that could easily end with his hands resting on Sherlock’s backside, if that seemed welcome.

When he had accomplished that much, hands just above their target, hesitating long enough for objections to be made, Sherlock had been the one to suddenly pull John and push himself, pressing their bodies together such that John felt, very distinctly, that there would be no objections. Lowering his hands to take firm grasp of Sherlock’s buttocks, he felt they could each be equally sure of the other’s readiness for more.

Sherlock broke away from kissing him and gasped against his neck.

‘John.’

‘Sherlock.’

He paused, said on a tentative breath, ‘Bed?’

John felt his certainly grow. ‘Yes.’ As Sherlock began to pull away from him, he held him in place. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Aren’t you?’

John pulled back, looked Sherlock in the eye, and took him by the hand. ‘Yes’, he nodded. ‘Bed. Whose?’

‘Mine’s closer.’

‘Right.’

When they reached his bedroom, Sherlock removed jacket, shirt, and shoes, laying them neatly aside. When he would have started on his trousers, John took hold of his hands to stop him.

‘Slow down’, he said. ‘We don’t have to rush.’

‘Shouldn’t we be naked for this?’

‘Well’, John said, ‘it often ends up that way. But you don’t have to strip down like that.’

Sherlock considered him. ‘You want to undress me.’

That didn’t sound like a bad idea to John, but he said, ‘I want this to be natural, not perfunctory.’

‘Alright’, Sherlock nodded. ‘Should we start?’

They both looked at the bed as if it had suddenly taken on epic status. Now that they were standing here about to go forward, John felt a bit daunted. Sherlock would never have admitted to that, but they both stalled, the slight break in momentum leaving them awkward and unsure. John solved the problem by turning them both away from the bed, cupping Sherlock’s face in both hands, and kissing him. Kissing had been going well, had got them this far, he reasoned; stick with what works.

It worked. It wasn’t long before their hands were travelling again, and their bodies were locked together. Sherlock wrested John’s shirt from his jeans while John set about making certain that he had touched every bit of Sherlock’s exposed skin. By the time Sherlock had John’s shirt open and had begun working on his vest, John had manoeuvred them to sitting on the bed. John broke their kiss long enough to yank open his cuffs and work the shirt off. Instead of returning to his lips, John moved to Sherlock’s neck and collarbone. His hand moved as if to cup a breast, and his brain stuttered slightly on the lack of tissue, but he converted the movement to drawing his palm firmly across a nipple. Sherlock’s hum prompted him to repeat the action several times as he worked his kisses farther down, finally kissing and sucking first one nipple and then the other. Reduced size, he knew, didn’t mean reduced pleasure, and Sherlock moaned as gratifyingly as any woman he’d ever done this for.

Sherlock, 95 percent of his brain devoted to two bumps of flesh, still had five percent left with which to realise that getting John’s vest off would mean losing his mouth. Pulling the vest down didn’t seem to be an option, nor did ripping it (yet), so he settled for slipping his hands under it and stroking John’s chest as John had his. This yielded positive results in that John sucked harder, then began to add firm nips to the mix.

John’s vest finally disappeared when John briefly pulled away to tug it off, which gave Sherlock just enough time to recognise that he was now on his back and that John was already back to leaning over him, mouth returning to its previous ministrations. Also, that John’s hands were quite busy as well, one massaging his hip, the other in his hair. To show his appreciation, Sherlock added a few tentative pinches to his endeavours.

‘Yes’, John mumbled against him. ‘That.’

Sherlock firmed his actions, and John rested his forehead against his chest, groaning his approval. This was both satisfactory (John liked it) and unsatisfactory (John was no longer working his own nipples), but Sherlock continued in the interest of fairness. John had spent a good amount of time and effort on him thus far, and reciprocity had been emphasised in all of the manuals. He raised his head to try the sucking and nipping actions, and John hissed. Several times.

It wasn’t long, though, before John was pulling away, saying, ‘Too much, too much.’

‘Did I get it wrong? I thought you were enjoying it.’

‘I was’, John replied, rolling onto his back. ‘Absolutely. Never could take very much of that, though.’

Sherlock noted the fact and considered what else he could do.

‘Shall I fellate you?’

John’s eyebrows and cock shot up, his lower portions unfortunately constrained by his jeans.

‘I’ll take that as a yes’, Sherlock said, leaning up and reaching for John’s flies.

John didn’t stop his hand but asked, ‘Are you sure you want to try jumping in with both feet like that?’

‘Don’t worry, John. I included videos in my research.’

John didn’t have time to respond to that before Sherlock had placed a hand inside his jeans and gave a short, sliding press against his cock. He inhaled sharply and deeply in response.

Sherlock slid off the bed, pulled John’s shoes off, then started tugging at his cuffs. John lifted up and helped to wriggle himself free of the denims, sending his pants with them.

‘Budge up’, Sherlock ordered with a wave, and John shimmied until he was stretched fully across the bed. Sherlock meanwhile dropped his own trousers and pants, revealing himself to be every bit as aroused as John.

John would have taken a moment to make further observations, but Sherlock was quick in returning to the bed. He straddled John’s legs and hitched forward until his knees were nestled against John’s outer thighs. He wrapped one hand around John’s shaft and stroked lightly up, causing John’s hips to buck. Sherlock grinned and stroked up and down a few times, firmer each time. John hummed a pleased response.

When Sherlock released him and shifted his weight in anticipation of bending forward, John said, ‘You really don’t have to do this, Sherlock. Didn’t any of those books say anything about starting slow?’

‘I expect I will start slow, speed up a bit, see what you like best.’

John shook his head at the man’s smirking confidence, but made no more protest.

Sherlock placed his hands on John’s hips and bent forward. As he leaned in, the deep musk of John’s scent surrounded him. He opened his mouth, leaned forward, hesitated, leaned back, licked his lips. The penis before him seemed suddenly immense. He drew a deeper breath and leaned forward again. This time he darted his tongue out for a quick lick, which barely touched John.

John felt Sherlock’s breath against him speed up, heard it become shallower.

‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock pressed forward again, brushing his lips across the glans before turning aside and planting his face against John’s thigh.

‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock moved as if to try one more time, but rolled off John and onto his back, his small ‘Sorry’ nearly lost in the sound of the mattress.

John rolled over to place a hand on his shoulder and looked worriedly at him. ‘You okay? Sherlock?’

Sherlock drew a deep breath. John rubbed his hand back and forth over his bicep.

‘I didn’t—’ Sherlock began. John waited. ‘I hadn’t realised it would feel quite so…intimate.’

‘Of course it’s intimate, Sherlock’, John said gently. ‘It’s probably the most intimate act two people can engage in.’

‘I thought that was copulation?’

John smiled. ‘Popular misconception.’

‘Hm.’ Sherlock looked to John’s erect member. ‘I could try again’, he offered.

‘Don’t’, John said, turning Sherlock’s face back to his and kissing him. ‘Not now, anyway. We can work up to that. If we go there at all.’

Sherlock’s wonder at what other route they would take to orgasms lasted only as long as it took John’s hand to wander from his bicep, down his flank, and onto his thigh. John rolled further, placing a leg between Sherlock’s. He then proceeded to kiss, caress, press, and rub until Sherlock felt he was on fire. He pawed at John, trying to return the caresses, but becoming consumed by the pressure building up deep within him. They ended clutching each other, rutting and writhing until Sherlock tensed, gasped, bucked, released. John held still against Sherlock’s thrusting climax, letting him fall back against the bed before he took hold of himself and quickly brought himself to completion.

They lay together in that haze that follows madness, breaths slowing, bodies cooling. Eventually, John leaned over the side of the bed and came up with a sock that he used to wipe them both mostly clean. He noted with a smile that Sherlock was drifting quickly into a doze, so he didn’t try to move him, only pulled the duvet down to fold over them where they lay across the foot of the bed. Sherlock hummed as John curled up around him.

It was moments later, when John thought he’d already gone to sleep, that Sherlock asked quietly, ‘Was that enough?’

‘Enough?’

‘Was it alright?’ he asked. ‘Did you want more?’

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. ‘It was more than enough. It was good.’

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, John really hated being a responsible adult. Not that he would ever have thought of not taking the best care of Mrs Hudson that he could: checking on her, icing her ankle, bringing her tea and sandwiches, making sure she was comfortable, and reminding her that he was only a phone call away, and that the phone was right on her nightstand. There were simply moments when he was a bit annoyed that he couldn’t think of such things as abandoning a patient.

Like the moment about half an hour ago, when he and Sherlock had been wrapped around each other under a blanket, skin pressed to skin, their discarded clothes and sleepy contentment giving testament to the fact that they had, as John had predicted, ‘figured it out’ as so many others had before.

It had been a very nice moment, one that he was disinclined to end.

Responsible adulthood, however, often had a way of ending very nice moments such as these. The alarm on his phone—the one he had set out of habit from time spent doctoring Sherlock, to alert him to needed checks and next doses—went off, jolting them both from their shared reverie.

‘Unnnn’, John groaned.

‘Mmmm’, Sherlock hummed.

‘Mrs Hudson’, John began.

‘Is fine’, Sherlock finished.

John started to raise himself up. Sherlock tightened his arms to hold him down.

‘No, Sherlock, really. I have to go check on her.’

‘That’s the way it’s to be then?’ Sherlock said, releasing him. ‘Dashing off to some woman when you’re done with me?’

‘Ha. Very funny.’ John extricated himself from the tangle of Sherlock and duvet and sat on the edge of the bed looking for his portion of the clothing. ‘But not a joke for when I’m going to check on Mrs Hudson, okay?’

Sherlock flapped a hand at him.

John stopped in the bathroom long enough to rinse some of the sex smell from himself, then dressed. When he was put back together, he decided to lean down to place a kiss on Sherlock’s hair. As he did so, his stomach rumbled, a reminder that he’d never finished placing that order at Speedy’s.

‘Is there anything that doesn’t make you hungry?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Yeah’, John replied, placing another kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. ‘Eating.’

Having tended to Mrs Hudson’s injury and given her another round of painkillers, John was just on the verge of promising her dinner soon when Sherlock appeared. He was showered and dressed and carried what John knew by the smell must be Angelo’s penne primavera. They set her up with a bed tray while she fussed about their fussing, then left her to eat with Radio 2 playing holiday music in the background.

Sherlock picked up their dinner where he left it on the steps, and they proceeded upstairs where John noted that Sherlock had even found time to light the fire.

‘That’s the way it’s to be, then? One good orgasm and you’re Mr Nice Guy?’

Sherlock smiled and set the food on the table. ‘Santa’s watching, John. Must be on our best behaviour.’

‘You know about Santa Claus?’ John asked, getting out plates and flatware.

‘Of course I know about Santa Claus.’ Sherlock looked indignant at the question.

‘Sorry’, John said, handing him a plate. ‘After the solar system, I never know what’s going to be missing from your hard drive.’

‘The solar system isn’t relevant to my work. And I wish you’d stop mentioning it’, Sherlock groused. ‘At some point it’s going to have been in my brain so often I won’t be able to forget it.’

‘One can only hope.’

They filled their plates, John poured some wine, and they went to sit by the fire, Sherlock moving the chairs closer to it and to each other.

‘And just how is Santa Claus relevant to your work?’ John asked.

‘A few years back there was a ring of street corner Santas that pulled off a string of bank robberies in the days leading up to Christmas. They got away with it for nearly two weeks, a different bank each day, because no one at Scotland Yard thought to suspect them until  _I_ brought their attention to them.’ He paused to sample the risotto. ‘Foolish to have overlooked them. The man breaks into millions of houses annually—it was only a matter of time before he turned to larceny.’

John opted to ignore the problems with that statement and attacked his lasagne with gusto.

‘Oh, on the topic of Christmas, would a good osteopath be an appropriate gift for Mrs Hudson, do you think?’

‘What, going to wrap one in a lab coat and tie a stethoscope around his neck in a little bow?’ Sherlock frowned. ‘She does need to see someone better than she’s going to now’, John acknowledged. ‘I talked with her after her last appointment; her doctor’s an idiot. I was thinking of checking some of my contacts, see if I could get her in to see someone better.’

‘Would Mr Adam Lancashire do?’

‘Lancashire?’ John paused over his wineglass. ‘Well, yeah, he’s one of the best in the city. But I don’t think my connexions go quite that far.’ Sherlock grinned. ‘I suppose yours do?’

‘I should be able to arrange something’, Sherlock said. ‘It’s been a few years, but I think he’ll remember that he owes—’

‘—owes you a favour. Of course. What did he hire you for?’ John settled back to listen.

‘He didn’t. His wife’s lover did. He was convinced there was another man in her life and wanted to know where she went when she left him. Not the sort of case I’d normally take, but he told an interesting tale, and I was bored. He’d tried to follow her himself but never got anywhere. Hired four different private detectives, all of whom failed to produce any result. Not one tracked her more than a few blocks. Idiots. Turns out the ex-Mrs Lancashire, years before becoming Mrs Lancashire, had spent several summers touring with a carnival as a magician’s assistant. Learnt quite a bit about the art of deception.’

‘Not enough to deceive you, though’, John prompted.

Sherlock smiled.

‘I followed her home, knocked on the door, and explained why I was there.’

‘You told her her lover had had her followed?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Seemed fair. Anyway, _Mr_ Lancashire was at the top of the stairs listening in. Heard the whole exchange. He’d begun to suspect her of infidelity but hadn’t yet done anything about it. Seemed rather amused to be freed of a cheating wife with the costs borne entirely by her lover. And since he hadn’t laid out any money, he said to look him up should I ever need his services.’

John chuckled. ‘Fantastic.’

‘Shall I make you an appointment as well?’ he asked. John looked at him questioningly. ‘Your shoulder’s been bothering you a bit more than usual lately.’

‘A bullet from a Kalishnikov-style assault rifle made a hole right through it; it’s going to bother me from time to time. Besides’, he added, ‘if I get it fixed up too well, I won’t be able to tell when it’s going to rain.’

‘John, we live in London. It’s going to rain. Soon.’

John considered this. ‘’S true. Sure, get us back-to-back appointments’, he said. ‘We can split the cab.’

 

* * *

 

‘You can spend an hour or two away from home. Don’t be such a hermit.’

John had just emerged from the shower when he heard Sherlock speaking from the sitting room, voice slightly raised. He was just formulating thoughts on pots and kettles when Sherlock’s voice came again.

‘You needn’t stay for more than half an hour. Have a drink, say “Happy Christmas”, and be done with it.’

Which sounded very much like Sherlock was inviting someone to the party tonight, and, since he couldn’t imagine who Sherlock might invite beyond those already coming, John paused in scrubbing the water from his hair to listen.

‘It’s not like I’ll be the only person here for you to talk to.’ Another pause followed by a frustrated, ‘Mycroft.’

That made John’s eyebrows shoot up. _Sherlock wants My—?_

‘Please.’ Said in the voice of a recalcitrant child just learning his manners, but Sherlock had, in fact, said please. To Mycroft. This was serious. This was bizarre.

Sherlock’s last comment was spoken too low for John to make out, but the conversation had to be over because the next sound was from Sherlock’s violin.

John waited through the day until late afternoon for Sherlock to mention that he’d invited Mycroft to the party, but he never said a word. Finally, when he was setting out the Christmas cake and tarts he’d ordered from the bakery (since he’d ordered Mrs Hudson to stay off her ankle), John decided to give him a prompt in the right direction.

‘So, I think it should be enough, don’t you?’ He turned to Sherlock, who was organizing notes from the home invasion they’d dealt with a few days prior. ‘Sherlock, what do you think? Do I have enough tarts to satisfy your sweet tooth?’

‘ _My_ sweet tooth?’ he protested. ‘It was Lestrade who ate the most last time.’

‘He might have eaten the most during the party, but it was you that stole the most to hide in your bedroom before our guests had even arrived.’

Sherlock sat back and looked sternly at John. ‘And when did you start monitoring my tart intake?’

John smiled, chuckled. ‘I think it was about the second week after I’d moved in? When I noticed that the bulk of what you ate was tarts and biscuits, the occasional piece of toast with honey.’

Sherlock rose and walked over to inspect the table laid with food and glassware, looking down his nose at the selection.

‘Well, they’re not Mrs. Hudson’s tarts, so you needn’t worry about me eating too many.’

‘And Molly and Mrs Hudson aren’t going to overdo it, so I guess it’s just Greg we have to worry about.’

‘And Mycroft.’

‘Mycroft’s coming?’ John kept his eyes on the table.

‘It’s likely.’ Sherlock picked up a tart and tasted it.

‘And unexpected’, John noted.

‘He called earlier. Mentioned he didn’t have anything on for tonight.’ Sherlock set the remnants of the tart on the stack of plates in obvious disapproval. ‘I told him he could stop by if he liked.’

‘Oh.’ John hesitated, but forged ahead. ‘Is that when you said please?’

Sherlock looked surprised, angry, but it passed quickly into chagrined annoyance.

‘Fine. I invited him. He should get out more.’ At John’s cocked eyebrow, he confessed, ‘And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to surprise him. It is a bit of a challenge.’

‘Surprise him with what?’ John asked.

Sherlock grinned and pressed closer to John, drew him in with arms around his waist. ‘Us.’

John’s brain stuttered over that. ‘Us?’

‘Yes, John. Us.’ Sherlock pulled back and looked down at John as if he were malfunctioning.

‘Are we going to make some announcement tonight? Or something?’ John asked slowly, stepping back.

‘Well, it’s not as if no one will notice.’ Sherlock saw how John was practically squirming with discomfort.

‘You don’t want anyone to know’, he stated.

‘No, that’s not it’, John stammered. ‘I—I don’t know. It’s early days yet, right? Maybe best not to say anything just yet. Act normal.’

‘Normal being covering up that fact that we’re now in a relationship.’

‘ _No._ No. Just not being obvious about it.’

‘No kissing.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No touching.’

‘Right.’

‘Nothing that would indicate that we’re anything other than friends.’

‘Basically.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘I see. And would this be because you don’t want people to know that you’re “not straight” or because you don’t want them to know that you’re with me.’

‘Sherlock, don’t’, John warned. ‘That is not what I am saying.’

‘Then what are you saying?’ Sherlock demanded.

John raised his hands in exasperation. ‘I’m saying that I don’t want to declare something to the world if I’m not sure of it.’

‘Then why did you declare it to me?’ Sherlock lost his breath to the realisation of what John had said: that he wasn’t sure. That this was perhaps all nothing to him: a temporary situation, a sidebar. An experiment.

That John hadn’t declared anything outside of sexual willingness.

For the second time in a week, John felt like throwing himself down the stairs and out of Sherlock’s life. Felt his stomach fall through the floor. Felt himself to be unarguably the worst man in London. Because only the worst man in London could have put such pain and hurt on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

He didn’t even try to speak as Sherlock skirted wide around him to disappear down the hall, behind the bedroom door, slammed shut. He was too busy trying to catch his own breath, to breathe through the pain in his own chest.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering how he could have been so stupid, so thoughtless. And realised in a flash that it didn’t matter. All that mattered was undoing it.

He strode down the hall and rapped on the bedroom door. When there was no reply from Sherlock, he opened the door and stepped in. Sherlock sprang up from the bed as the door opened and turned away from John.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Get out.’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Out, I said.’

‘Will you just let me—’

Sherlock whirled and shouted into his face, ‘Why are you still here?’

John held his ground. ‘I’m making a declaration.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Sherlock pushed past him and strode down the hallway.

John grimaced and followed. Sherlock stood in the kitchen looking at the table like he would overturn it.

‘I’d like to declare that I’m an idiot.’

‘Tell me something I didn’t know.’

‘I will. Another time, when it’s not an hour before our guests start to arrive. I will tell you why I was so horrible and stupid just now.’ Because he did know. He knew, as well as he knew the crinkles around Sherlock’s eyes when he smiled, what fear had brought out the ugliest in him. ‘But it’s not the time for that right now. Right now, I’d like to declare—’ John collected himself with a deep, shuddering breath—‘that there is no person in my life that I love as much as I love you. That you are my best friend, the best part of my life. And, despite recently proving that I can, in fact, live without you, I don’t ever want to again. It was awful, it was— ’ John swallowed down the tears that sought release and concluded on a strained breath, ‘You’re not my whole world, Sherlock, but you’re all the world I want.’

It was long seconds before Sherlock could turn and face John, a smile unfolding on his face. John began to step forward, but Sherlock’s smile flattened and he put a hand out against John’s approach.

‘No.’

‘Sherlock, whatever I have to do—’

‘I mean wait.’

John waited.

‘Shouldn’t you at least give me the chance to tell you that I love you, too?’

John closed the space between them, brought Sherlock’s mouth to his, and kissed him.

Right under the holly.

 

* * *

 

 

[Screen cap by aithine](http://sc.aithine.org/) [  
](http://sc.aithine.org/)


	2. Coda: The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the mistletoe finally gets some use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For those joining from 'A Modern Odyssey' and not wanting to read the rest of the story, just know that John & Sherlock have finally got together, and Sherlock has invited Mycroft to their holiday party to surprise him with the news.)

Mrs Hudson settled back against the arm of the sofa, a smile of contentment lighting her face despite the bandaged ankle propped on the cushion before her. It was a small gathering, but the nice thing about small gatherings like this was that you knew everyone there was a friend. Of course, there were other friends beyond these, but these were the ones that truly mattered.

In answer to her hopes, Greg had already caught Molly under the mistletoe twice. Both times, she had blushed very prettily, and Greg had smiled broadly. He was such a handsome, good-natured man. He deserved someone nice, someone better than that cheating ex-wife of his.

Mrs Hudson tucked that disparaging thought away. It was Christmas Eve. Time for light hearts and good cheer.

Molly’s party frock, though not so bold as the last one Mrs Hudson had seen her in, was certainly contributing to Greg’s good cheer. And where another dress might have shown more of what she had to offer, this one was a bit more demure while better highlighting her figure. Elegant, too. She wore it well.

John was in a very good mood. Of course, he enjoyed a party. He could chat, tell a few jokes, make sure everyone was well-taken care of, and simply relish the company. She would have liked to see him with a date, but she supposed that he was still adjusting to having Sherlock back.

Sherlock.

Earlier in the evening, she would have said he was happy, in a Sherlock sort of way. She had almost suspected Greg of tipping him off to some locked door mystery plaguing the police. He’d played a number of carols, not made any offensive deductions, and even raised a glass with everyone else when John had toasted the company.

But as the evening had worn on, he’d grown quiet, pulled away. He hadn’t even eaten any tarts, and she knew how he loved them. Now he was standing at the window looking out at the street, for all the world like a little boy that hadn’t got the puppy he’d asked Santa for. She would have gone to speak with him had she not known that she would draw John’s wrath for even dreaming of standing on her own.

But John, it would seem, was saving her the trouble. Even now, he was looking at his dear friend with concern and crossing the room to join him. If Sherlock could be cheered, John would manage it, she knew.

 

* * *

 

‘Nothing so fascinating as a pavement, is there?’

Sherlock didn’t turn to John, didn’t look away from whatever it was he had focussed on.

‘How about a piece of cake? You’ve not eaten anything.’

Still Sherlock did not respond. John sighed and considered the ice melting in his drink.

‘Sherlock.’

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. A bit outside of their agreement, to defer any displays of affection until everyone was there, when they would then share their news, but the gesture was no more than what he’d done a dozen times before in front of these very people.

‘So, are we going to do this then?’ he asked low enough that no one would hear.

Their reflected gazes briefly met in the window, but Sherlock looked away again.

‘Did he actually say he’d come?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘He said he’d see if he could rearrange his schedule, not that he had a damned thing on his schedule for tonight.’ He turned half toward John and added, ‘But I really thought it was a yes.’

John slid his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder, daring a brief caress as he dropped his arm to his side.

‘Well, maybe he meant yes. Something could have come up. He does have some pretty important work to do on occasion.’

‘It’s Christmas. Half of the world is on holiday.’

‘So he misses the party. I’m sure he’ll be surprised whenever he finds out.’

‘It’s more than that, and you know it’, Sherlock said, turning back to the window.

John nodded. ‘Yeah, I do. I also know that, in the end, it’s not worth it to let it kill an evening.’

‘So sorry I’m ruining your party’, Sherlock said acidly.

‘Come on, Sherlock. Enough of this’, John said low, pulling at his forearm. ‘You’re worrying Mrs Hudson and, although you’re not ruining the party, you’re not helping it. And I’m not letting you get away with that this year. You’re going to pick up that violin, you’re going to play us a few more tunes, laugh at Greg’s worst jokes, and then you’re going to tell our friends that you love me.’

Sherlock could not help a smile at those words, despite trying to suppress it. He looked again to John’s reflection and gave in.

 

* * *

 

He was half-way through supporting the others in a spirited chorus of ‘Here We Come A-Wassailing’ when Mycroft appeared in the doorway. Without faltering, he played on, a real smile overtaking the mask he’d put on for John’s sake. As they finished, he played a flourish of notes, turned to John beside him, and kissed him with vigor.

Which hadn’t been the plan, strictly speaking, but it had the desired effect.

Greg’s eyes boggled, Molly gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth, and Mrs Hudson squeaked out an ‘Oh!’ and beamed at them.

And Mycroft spent six whole seconds (yes, Sherlock counted) with his mouth open.

And John kissed him back. Wrapped one arm around his neck, the other around his waist, and kissed him where everyone could see.

Five minutes later, when all of the ‘What’s’ and ‘Really’s’ and ‘Oh, my god’s’ and ‘How long’s’ had been exclaimed and addressed, Mycroft (whose commentary had consisted of a sigh and rolled eyes) went to pour himself a drink. John was in the kitchen, putting out fresh ice. He stopped and looked warily at Mycroft, who was looking nearly fierce at the moment.

‘Mycroft’, he nodded.

‘John’, Mycroft nodded back.

John checked over the table to see if anything else was needed.

‘So, is this the part where you tell me, “If you hurt my little brother, I’ll hurt you”?’

Mycroft looked at him a moment and then chuckled.

‘Funny, am I?’ John asked.

‘Forgive me, but I do find that amusing. I would have expected it to be the other way around.’

‘What’, John asked, broadening his stance, ‘you think Sherlock’s going to hurt me?’

Mycroft smiled. ‘No, John. I simply would have thought it far likelier for you to make that threat to me.’

John considered that and nodded. ‘I suppose I might, at that.’

 

* * *

 

‘Satisfied?’

Sherlock smirked at Mycroft's feigned boredom.

‘Quite’, he replied.

‘Childish.’

‘Where’s your Christmas spirit, Mycroft? You can’t scowl at a party—Mrs Hudson will have your hide.’

Mycroft merely tilted an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock looked toward the others, chattering merrily.

‘You might consider jumping in yourself. Water’s fine.’

Mycroft’s eyes grew steely. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Can’t? Won’t?’

‘Sherlock, in my position—’

‘Please, spare me Mycroft Holmes’s personalised version of the Official Secrets Act.’

Mycroft sighed and was about to speak when Sherlock said brightly, ‘Oh, look. That’s five.’

Mycroft turned just in time to see Greg pull away from Molly, smile, and say, ‘Mistletoe.’ Molly blushed and proceeded into the kitchen to refill her wine glass. Mycroft heard Sherlock’s voice, distant, say, ‘He’s been doing that all night.’

To his credit, Mycroft nearly maintained the detached, bored expression he wore for official state functions. But for the feral glint in his eye, one would never have known that he was concerned at all with what Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper did under the mistletoe.

But there was a glint.

He crossed the room at just the right time so that, when Molly turned and was about to walk back to the sitting room, and Greg was about to lean in for yet another kiss, Greg never had a chance.

Molly’s turn brought her face-to-chest with Mycroft, who leaned down and kissed her in a most possessive fashion. Not looking, he took the wine glass from her outstretched hand, holding it out to Greg who, mouth agape, took it without thinking. Which freed Molly to wrap both arms around Mycroft and return his kiss with decided enthusiasm.

For the second time that night, the company stood gawking, Sherlock excepted. He merely smiled smugly.

Satisfied as to the marking of his territory, Mycroft pulled away slightly, smiled at Molly, and said, ‘Mistletoe, my dear.’

‘I thought—’ Molly looked mildly confused beneath her flush of happiness.

‘You’re among friends.’ Mycroft, still not looking at Greg, retrieved her wineglass and led her back to her seat.

John walked out from the kitchen to stare after them.

‘She’s?’ Greg began.

‘With him?’ John finished.

‘Indeed’, Sherlock answered, joining them.

They both turned bewildered faces to him. He shrugged.

Greg suddenly lost all color.

‘Oh, my God’, he said. ‘I’ve been kissing your brother’s girlfriend all night?’

Sherlock grinned.

‘He could have me killed for that, couldn’t he?’

‘Well…’

‘Sherlock’, John cautioned.

‘Don’t worry, Lestrade. She’d never let him.’

Greg decided to take refuge at the far end of the kitchen behind a large glass of whiskey, just to be sure.

‘I’d never have known’, John said, nodding at the smiling couple. ‘She never even let on she was seeing somebody.’

‘You’ve seen that Molly knows how to keep a secret, John.’ John scowled slightly at that, at the fact that Molly had known all along that Sherlock was alive. ‘And Mycroft’s a walking secret. I’m sure she’ll keep him quite well.’

‘How long has she been keeping him?’

‘A few months. Since around the time I got back. Already been a good influence on him.’

John looked inquiringly at him.

‘Or haven’t you noticed that the world’s been a slightly kinder, happier place in the last three months?’ Sherlock asked with an amused smile.

‘I have’, John said, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist. ‘But it’s been nothing to do with Mycroft.’

And John kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock kissed John—under the mistletoe at last.


End file.
